


The Letters Series

by kuriadalmatia



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriadalmatia/pseuds/kuriadalmatia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his abrupt departure from the BAU, Gideon still tries to connect with his protégé. Unbeknownst to him, Hotch and Reid's relationship evolves after Hotch's divorce. It's only after the identity of the Boston Reaper is revealed that Reid visits Gideon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Struggle

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: S3 to S5, with an AU twist on "Faceless, Nameless"
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.
> 
> TIMELINE/SPOILERS: 3rd season, with direct references to "Revelations".

***///***

 _The pianist is good, although the melody is a bit too modern jazz for Gideon's taste. He prefers more dramatic pieces, those with a rumbling basso and soaring mezzo-sopranos. The wingback chair is comfortable, cushions broken in just enough and the upholstery fits in with the earthy decor. The club is smoke-filled yet without the stale cigarette smell that he's come to expect from the jazz clubs in New Orleans._

 _As always, Gideon is surprised at the snifter of brandy he's holding, because he prefers an aged ruby port as an after-dinner drink. One glance to occupied seat next to him and he knows exactly why he has that particular beverage._

 _As always, Gideon says, "Your friend is good."_

 _As always, Spencer admits, "I'm struggling."_

 _As always, Gideon dispenses the same advice. "Well ... anybody who's been through what you've been through recently ... would. Now you're questioning whether or not you're strong enough to be here? I have been playing at this job in one way or another for almost thirty years. I've felt lost. I've felt great. I have felt scared, sick, and insane. I don't know. I guess the day this job stops gnawing at your soul and your hands ... your hands stop feeling cold ... maybe that's the time to leave."_

 _"I'll never miss another plane again," Spencer vows._

 _Then, Gideon finds himself in the Smithsonian private archives, admiring an original hand-colored Audubon etching entitled 'turdus polyglottus' and still holding his snifter of brandy. Funny, in all these times, he never has taken a drink._

 _He leans over admiring the detail of the rattlesnake's fang._

 _Suddenly, Spencer says, "See how they fight the rattlesnake for their nest? They have no concern for their own safety."_

 _Startled, Gideon looks up to see the younger man standing across from him, belt pulled snugly against his upper arm and a syringe protruding from his inside elbow._

 _But it's not Spencer._

 _It's his own son. "I'm struggling," he says._

 _The snifter slips from Gideon's fingers._

 _The glass breaks._

 _The amber liquid spills across the Audubon._

 __  
***///***

Gideon bolts upright in his bed, sheets tangled around his waist as he gasps for breath.

"Just a dream," he says aloud as he runs a hand over his face. "Just a dream." He glances at the clock—four-thirty in the morning—and he knows that he will not get back to sleep. He yanks the sheets off and gets out of bed. In this small cabin, the kitchen is only ten paces from his bed. He puts the kettle on for tea—he gave up drinking coffee when he moved out here—and pads over to his desk.

Gideon pulls out the inkwell and the fountain pen, inspecting the nib before setting them down next to the vellum.

And just like he has done after every time his has this particular dream, he sits down and begins to write.

 _Dear Spencer …_

***///***


	2. Vellum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A car accident lands Reid in the hospital overnight and he asks Hotch to retrieve some belongings from his apartment. Hotch isn't expecting to find the letters.

  
***///***

The list of items to be gathered from Reid's apartment is short: a change of clothing from the bedroom closet, eyeglasses and case from the nightstand, and the sheaf of paper and Mont Blanc pen from the desk.

Of all the things to put Reid in the hospital, a car accident on his day off seems so... wrong.

Hotch packs the items into the leather go bag he'd given Reid last Christmas (honestly, Reid's hard-sided suitcase just _had_ to be retired). He plucks the two poly-bagged magazines from the nightstand as well— _Journal of Experimental Psychology_ and _Foundation: The International Review of Science Fiction_ —because obviously Reid hasn't had time to read them. Hotch then laughs. It will take Reid perhaps 10 minutes to devour both.

 _It's the thought that counts,_ Hotch reasons as he leaves the impossibly neat bedroom and heads towards the explosion that is Reid's desk .

Once there, Hotch cautiously sorts through the stack of papers, searching for the specific pack of paper and Mont Blanc pen. The latter is easy to locate. Picking it up, a wave of irrational envy hits Hotch because the pen is exquisite and obviously a gift. A very, _very_ expensive gift.

He slides the pen into his breast pocket, telling himself that he doesn't want to get it lost in the go bag. He shifts through envelopes from Brown, Cornell, Cal-Tech, Harvard, UPenn, Yale …

Hotch wonders just how many offers Reid receives in a month. From the postmarks, these letters are from the last two weeks alone. He sighs as he realizes just why Reid had specifically asked him to retrieve his personal items. He smiles as he continues to dig, the quote about discretion and valor floating in his head.

Then, he sees it.

The innocuous beige vellum envelope with very distinctive writing.

The go bag drops to the floor.

Hotch isn't sure what emotion washes over him: anger, envy, protectiveness, fury, _unfathomable_ hurt, _unadulterated_ relief. He closes his eyes.

"Jason," he breathes as his fingers glide along the top of the unopened envelope.

God knows, Hotch had tried to track him during those first few months. He had enlisted Garcia’s help (unofficially, of course) and they had gotten as far as Butte, Montana before he had called it off.

He remembers Garcia whispering, “Gideon’s revisiting cases, isn’t he?”

Hotch had nodded grimly as he had stared at the screen.

“I have an address,” she had said before scribbling on purple Post-It note using a lime green pen.

Hotch had thanked her and had gone back to his office. His own letter to Jason had been short. He has never received a response. His letter has never been returned either.

He pushes those thoughts to the side as he continues his search, resisting the urge to examine the envelope for a postmark or return address. Still, he wonders if this is Reid’s subtle way of (finally) wanting to talk about Jason.

Maybe.

Maybe Reid doesn’t even know the letter is there. After all, it is mixed in with a bunch of letters from various universities.

He finally locates the cream-colored linen paper, hiding in one of the desk drawers instead of on top like Reid had told him. The paper is still in the original, sealed slim box. As Hotch pulls it out, he catches a glimpse of more beige vellum in the back of the drawer. His mouth drops open; he can’t stop himself from reaching in and pulling the letters out. They are tied in a bundle. Fourteen all have the same return address and all postmarked within the last three months.

All unopened.

He slips them back into the drawer and closes it.

///***///


	3. Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reid feels guilty about asking Hotch to pick things up for him from his apartment. What he's not expecting is Hotch's effortless offer to listen.

///***///

One thing that Spencer Reid really hates about being in the hospital is that he is constantly on display. Especially when he’s hooked up to the heart monitors that conveniently broadcast just how panicked he gets when someone approaches with a needle. The only good thing is that it’s never completely dark.

Reid feels guilty because it is a Saturday night and surely his boss has much, much better things to do than go to his apartment to pick up a few things. However, he reminds himself that Hotch would have done this for any member of the team. He thinks of the case with Max Ryan, and Elle’s comment about how they were all available at a moment’s notice, even if it was the weekend.

He’s annoyed because the room is completely blurry and has been for over six hours. “Better broken glasses than a broken face,” the EMT on the scene had said, which hadn’t been and still isn’t much consolation. Being told for the fifteenth time that he’s very, very lucky is even more grating.

He knows why the hospital insisted on keeping him overnight. While some of it has to do with the injuries, Reid also recognizes just how the hospital staff addresses him. The marks on his inner arm aren’t completely gone, he has a medical alert tag declaring his “allergy” to a certain classification of drugs, he’s skinny and he has dark eye syndrome.

Reid’s been clean for _months_ , but still… Yeah. He gets it. He doesn’t like it, but he gets it. He also doesn’t argue. Funny, the little bits of wisdom passed on during those NA meetings.

The knock at the door startles him. He knows immediately that it’s Hotch because his boss _always_ seeks permission before entering someone’s hospital room. It’s a nice change.

“Thank you,” Reid says sincerely, wondering just how dopey his smile is and knowing that he can’t blame the painkillers. The strongest medication he’s been given is extra-strength Tylenol.

The Hotch-shaped blob murmurs a “you’re welcome” as he enters the room and immediately hands over the eyeglass case. Reid quickly slides his glasses on and everything comes—thankfully—back into focus. He winces as the pads settle on the bridge of his nose but still he offers another “Thank you”. Then, he registers Hotch’s casual attire: faded jeans, partially zipped hoodie that’s seen better days and —Reid does blink twice because _impossible!_ —a shabby t-shirt.

Hotch in a shabby t-shirt.

Hotch in a shabby t-shirt and there’s a slight quirk to his lips, as if debating on whether to share the joke. He probably won’t. He rarely does.

“How’s the Volvo?” Hotch finally asks and there is genuine sympathy in his voice. He and Garcia are the only ones who realize that Reid does, in fact, drive a classic car. It just needs a bit more repair to make it look more respectable.

“Actually, it was a rental,” Reid corrects with a smile and a shrug, but the attempted nonchalant move sends searing pain through his shoulder and lungs. He gasps and winces before clarifying, “A Toyota with a very aggressive seatbelt and unforgiving driver's side airbag.”

Hotch snorts as he holds up the go bag. “Which would you like first? Magazines, mail, or stationary?”

“Mail?” he echoes, confused.

“There was a stack on your desk,” Hotch replies with just enough neutrality to make Reid tense up.

The heart monitors dutifully report his increased heart rate and blood pressure. Reid glares at it as he calls up the image of his desk and the explosion of paper on top of it. Mail. Why would Hotch bring mail when he didn’t ask for it? A quick glance at the envelopes peeking out of the bag answers that question easily.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Reid replies, knowing he sounds defensive but, seriously, where else would he go? Lecture at Brown? Teach classes at Yale? Fight for tenure at Cornell? Research at Cal-Tech? Maybe, _maybe_ those possibilities on the day the job stops gnawing at his soul and his hands stop feeling cold…

Reid’s mind screeches to a halt. Those words. Those exact words spoken in New Orleans, followed by his own vow of never missing another plane again.

There must have been another letter.

How could he have missed it this morning? Well, he had been in a hurry and he had just tossed the mail on his desk without sorting it. He realizes just how Hotch interpreted things and what the man is offering now.

Then, there’s that moment of silence. That long, painful internalized, _What the fuck do I say now?_ Because even though Reid doesn’t normally swear, this is a very appropriate time.

“I know,” Hotch says simply.

 _Hello, my name is "Loaded Statement",_ Reid thinks.

He’s expecting anger. Resentment. A lecture on not sharing with the team because everyone— _everyone_ (okay, not Rossi)—has wondered just where Gideon is now and here Reid is, withholding information. Gideon could be dying and these are his final missives…

Regardless, Reid’s not expecting Hotch’s effortless offer of, _If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If not, okay._ It’s one Reid knows he can never emulate no matter how hard he tries.

Maybe Hotch believes that this is the first one, that Reid hasn’t had time to read it.

Maybe.

But Reid doesn’t want to lie to Hotch.

The solution is simple: he just doesn’t elaborate.

Hotch holds his gaze. It makes Reid uncomfortable, but there is no way Reid is going to back down. He can’t. Reid is stunned when Hotch looks away first.

“Sometimes, the most we can do is trust.” Hotch’s voice is soft, gentle almost. “And sometimes, the hardest part is remembering how.”

///***///


	4. The Curtains Flew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon is pleased that his former protégé finally came to visit, but then he realizes that Reid is there for one purpose only. It's not to grant Gideon forgiveness for leaving. (Spoilers for S4's "Omnivore")

///***///

Jason ushers his guest in, handing him a thick blue towel to dry off with. He knows the younger man has been standing out in the rain for ten minutes sans umbrella, which is really foolish but he refrains from commenting.

Spencer Reid doesn’t need—probably won't tolerate—a lecture from him.

Of course, Jason offers coffee, explaining that it will be French pressed because that’s how he makes his tea nowadays; he doesn't own an automatic coffeemaker. He does this with a gentle smile, careful not to seem too eager or too pleased, but then wonders whom he thinks he’s kidding.

He hears a “thank you” muffled by the towel as he puts the kettle on and measures out the coffee. The cabin is small, almost like a studio apartment with an open floor plan except that Jason's bedroom does have a door to separate it. There's a two-person table, a desk with a chair, and a futon. He does have a TV and a stereo system, but he has never been one to have the television on when someone is visiting.

When Jason turns back to his guest, he wants to be surprised that Reid is still standing with the towel now settled around his shoulders. At first, he thinks that Reid probably doesn't want to get the futon couch wet, so Jason opens his mouth to say, _A little water won't hurt it,_ but stops.

No. That's not it at all.

There isn't small talk. Reid isn't spewing random facts or peppering him with questions or demanding explanations. That alone sends chills up Jason's spine. The younger man isn't carrying his weapon or even his messenger bag, so Jason tells himself that this isn't official business therefore Reid isn't here to tell him one of the team is dead.

At least, he hopes not.

Reid juts his chin toward the television, his gaze sharp. “Have you been watching the news?”

Okay. Maybe it was an official visit. But Reid would have called first. Jason’s former protégé did have rather old-fashioned manners, something that he had found utterly refreshing and charming.

“What’s this about, Spencer?” Jason asks cautiously. The younger man flinches at the use of his first name, and Jason’s mouth goes dry. He wonders if Spencer will request to be addressed by his last name or title.

But… the letters. Surely Reid read the letters.

Or maybe not.

 _Abandonment issues,_ Jason chides himself.

“Boston doesn’t seem like a good place for us,” Reid replies bitterly. He pauses, looks around, and then adds, “There was another case there.”

Right then, right there, Jason knows precisely why Reid is here. He has been watching the news. He still follows the team; he tells himself it is out of habit more than anything else. Oh. And concern for people he once called friends.

“Foyet,” he says slowly. He keeps the rest of his comments— _Hotch’s first case as lead profiler. He never let that one go._ —to himself. Or so he thinks.

Reid is staring at him. “Did _you_ ever let Boston go?”

“Spencer…”

“Reid,” the younger man corrects as he crosses his arms, but it’s not the defensive posture from two years ago. It is Reid’s version of the Hotchner “I’m thoroughly pissed off” Stance.

It’s like a slap in the face. Jason looks away. He shakes his head. He tries again, “Reid...”

"Tell me everything you know about the Reaper case."

///***///


	5. Obsolete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Hotch is declared missing, Gideon is called back to the BAU to help locate him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE/SPOILERS: Proudly AU to the 5th season opener, follows directly after "To Hell... and Back" because it's not like they're ever going to physically bring back Gideon.
> 
> COMMENTS: Original concept May 2009, shortly after the original airing of "To Hell... and Back". Shelved due to an insane workload and when I finally got back to it, the S5 premiere had basically blown most of this to bits even if it wasn't AU already.

///***///

For the first time in thirty years, Jason Gideon vomited upon listening to a voice mail message. Spencer's tone had been distant, cold. Angry. God, he had sounded so damn angry.

 _Hotch was abducted from his home ten hours ago by George Foyet. It won't be on the news._

As Jason emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet, he sourly wondered if a fortuneteller could predict the future based on the swirls that the linguini made in the bowl. Wanting them to say, _Hotch will be fine. Foyet will be caught and stay behind bars and never hurt anyone again,_ was downright pathetic.

Jason wasn't sure if he was happy or sad that—despite being almost three years removed from the BAU—he could still grab his go bag from the closet and know that he had enough clothes for four days and that he didn't need to pack toiletries. He wasn't sure if he was happy or sad that the nearest regional airport was less than twenty minutes from his cabin. He wasn't sure if he was happy or sad that he could call in an old favor at said regional airport and be on his way to Quantico within forty minutes of receiving the message.

Oh God.

No.

He couldn't do this again.

He just couldn't.

But this was Aaron Hotchner. And Jason knew absolutely that if the situation were reversed, Hotch would put everything aside in order to help him.

He still had Aaron's letter. He coveted it more than he should.

Three hours later, Jason barreled in to the FBI headquarters at Quantico, flashing his expired credentials—the same ones Reid had tossed at his feet before leaving after their first discussion about Foyet those months ago—and was given a guest pass. He had a feeling that Garcia was paving his way, because there was no way he should have been able to get so far, so easily, without inside help.

Still. Walking into the BAU's conference room was a special kind of hell.

JJ. Morgan. Prentiss. Garcia. Reid.

Rossi.

That was a surprise.

The Springfield .45 holstered on the man's hip and the Bureau ID clipped to his belt meant that Jason's former co-worker wasn't here as a consultant; Rossi had been reinstated. Jason briefly wondered just how long the other man had been back and also why Reid failed to disclose that particular tidbit during his visit.

It probably didn't occur to him.

"Gideon," JJ said, head tilted slightly as if she couldn't believe he was here. She looked different, cheeks a bit more rounded and her shirt untucked. There was a stain on her shoulder. He smiled softly. JJ as a mother. It suited her.

Prentiss rounded the conference table and clasped his hands warmly. "Reid said he called you." There was that little edge in her voice that said, _I had no idea he knew how to contact you._ "I wish this could be under better circumstances."

"So do I," Jason replied, which he supposed, was the appropriate response. He made sure he met Garcia's eyes as he tapped the guest badge, because without her intervention, he wouldn't have been allowed back in the building, much less whatever role he was allowed to play here. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she replied as her fingers stilled over her keyboard, but she didn't tack on the 'sir' that she would have three years ago.

It stung more than he expected it to.

Morgan stood by the victimology board, the picture of a smiling Hotch with his son posted just over his shoulder. "Good to see you, man," but there wasn't the relief in Morgan's voice or the rush forward to shake his hand that Jason's ego was hoping for.

Then again, Morgan had kept his distance after Boston bombing.

Reid glanced over—he was facing the map where he was working on the geographical profile—and nodded once before returning to his work.

 _What did you expect?_ Jason chided himself. _Reid gushing how great it is to have you back and how it's now a slam-dunk for them to get Hotch back, unharmed?_

"Nice of you to stop by," Rossi said, getting in the verbal jab before he extended his hand in an offer of peace. Expected, of course, because they never had really gotten along. They shook.

Regardless, Jason knew his place. He met Rossi's inscrutable gaze. "Tell me what I can do."

///***///

Admittedly, Jason was surprised that Rossi had asked him to profile the crime scene. "Fresh eyes," the other man had said in response to the curious stares the rest of the team had given him back at the BAU. Only Reid seemed singularly perturbed.

"We know it's Foyet because Morgan's credentials were found at the scene," Rossi told him. "At first, we thought he had a partner because, let's face it, Foyet isn't exactly Mister Muscle. Getting Hotch out of his apartment, down an elevator and out to and into a vehicle without any witnesses? Challenging, even if Hotch was unconscious."

Jason grunted in an agreement.

"But... Foyet's too much a narcissist to share the glory. He got away with it for ten years, stringing that cop along..." Rossi shook his head. "He had a best-selling author in his pocket that kept him warm at night. And when we took him in? He bragged about being the most famous of them all. He's not gonna share this with anyone." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "Realistically, we're all too close to this. We shouldn't even be touching it. But you know those kids. Hell. They're all going to have their thumbs in the pie so might as well make it official." He had let out a sharp, short laugh. "And before you say anything, Jason, I know damn well that I'd have my thumb in it too."

Jason didn't reply, just followed Rossi until they reached Hotch's apartment. He absently fiddled with the wedding band he still wore, wondering why he wasn't more surprised about Hotch's marital status. He suddenly remembered the conversation with Rossi after they had both met Haley, back when Hotch had just joined the team. Rossi's assessment had been grim: _Sure, it's all sweetness and light now because he's part of an elite unit, but… women like that? She's got an agenda and God help Aaron if he doesn't follow it._ Jason had countered with, _Not every marriage ends up like your two._ Rossi had shrugged, _But for an FBI agent? Most of them do._

He really hated it when Rossi was right.

Now, Jason closed his eyes, forcing conversations and feelings away so that he could concentrate on the scene. Objective. He prided himself on being objective.

Just another crime scene. Just another victim. Just another UnSub.

Yeah. _Right._

The residence looked barely lived in, but that was par for the course when it came to the living alone and being part of the BAU.

No forced entry at the door.

Furniture relatively new, casual yet slightly modern. Décor distinctly masculine. Taupe, navy, pale cream and beige. Solids and stripes. No florals. A few framed European art pieces on the wall.

Keys carelessly tossed on the credenza by the door.

The sharp smell of liquor. A near-empty decanter on the wet bar, bullet-hole in the wall above it. Crystal highball on its side on the ground. Blood soaked into the carpet. CSI markers all over the place, but nothing to indicate Hotch had been dragged anywhere.

There had been a struggle, but not much of one given the blood pattern and how the papers on the desk seemed undisturbed. Hotch's phone and gun looked as if they had been tossed there, not arranged. Foyet wouldn't have taken the time to straighten the desk after the fight. The desk chair was tipped over.

Rossi had dismissed the partner theory. Seeing this crime scene, it made sense. True, Hotch had put up somewhat of a fight. Foyet had to disable him somehow. And if Foyet had wanted him dead, the body would be here. Perhaps Foyet wanted to torture him. Jason recalled the comments about Hotch "not taking the deal," which resulted in those deaths on a public bus.

He looked over at the desk again. More CSI markers. Morgan's credentials opened with a single, unspent bullet.

Jason wandered into Hotch's bedroom. Tidy, except for the bed, King-sized left unmade. Too many pillows. A space clearly shared by two people, at least the last time Hotch had slept there.

Jason edged closer to the nightstand with the bedside lock box on top. Obviously Hotch's side. Reading glasses next to the alarm clock. New. Finally, an admission of age after all these years of teasing Jason about his. Jason wanted to smile. He couldn't. A dog-eared copy of _The Firm_ by John Grisham, near the lamp.

He worked his way to the other side of the bed, noting the psychology journals face down on the nightstand and the leather glass case with the name of the optometrist embossed on the front. This wasn't a one-night stand. This was a relationship. People just didn't leave prescription eyewear casually.

A ghost of a smile crept across his face. _Good for him._ Yet... this particular aspect had been absent from the briefing. He raised an eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder. Rossi was standing in the doorway. "Don't tell me he's sleeping with his therapist."

Rossi smirked. "Nah. It's a little more complex than that."

"You didn't mention this before," Jason snapped, remembering exactly why working with David Rossi could be such a pain in the ass. Anal retentive neat freak. Held everything too damn close to his chest so he could solve the case single-handedly. Arrogant. It made Jason spit out, "Does the team know he's been seeing someone? Has she been contacted?" Jason forced the images of Sarah out of his head, ignored the chills racing down his spine as his stomach churned. "You know that Foyet kills in pairs!"

"Foyet kills _heterosexual_ couples," Rossi clarified, smug as always.

Those last two words hit Jason like a Mack truck.

"What?" Jason stared and then suddenly, anger took over. "Do not play coy with me, David! We need to know everything about the... victim." The last word was bitter on his tongue. Flashbacks of Chicago and Georgia and those horrific hours in the ICU with Elle played in his mind. "That means who he's seeing. How long he's been seeing... him." Jason wasn't sure why he was so surprised at the gender. He wasn't judgmental but he had worked with Hotch for years... This was… not what he expected at all. "Has his... What? Lover? Boyfriend? Has he been warned? Placed in protective custody at least?"

"You're a crafty old profiler, Jason," Rossi retorted smoothly. "It shouldn't be that difficult to figure out."

And when Jason did, all the little breadcrumbs he'd observed when Reid had visited him in his cabin after Foyet's escape, the phone call about Hotch, and then the briefing in Quantico, all made perfect sense.

///***///

Jason wanted to feel admiration and pride for Reid's stalwart professionalism, for how the younger man made valuable contributions to the discussions all the while knowing some lunatic held his lover captive.

Instead, Jason felt pure jealousy, followed by the nagging voice in his head that said, _When you found Sarah, you rabbitted from your apartment like a pathetic criminal. You couldn't handle it. You cried on the phone to Hotch like a baby. You did the worse thing in the world: you ran. You **ran.**_

He tried to reason that Sarah was different, that it had come after a series of particularly bad cases. That the sanctuary of his cabin had been violated by Randall Garner. That he had not given up the guilt of Elle's shooting or that she had left. That he still felt responsible for what happened to Reid at the hands of Tobias Henkel. Seeing Sarah butchered, having his journal of those he'd saved in the hands of a vindictive madman… It wasn't the same.

 _This is worse,_ that same little voice sneered. _Far, far worse. You never had to deal with anything remotely like the pig farm in Sarnia. You never had to deal with something like this on only four hours sleep._ Funny, that little voice sounded a lot like Rossi.

Jason wandered up to the boards, examining the Reaper's first set of victims from 1998 and the second from earlier this year. Bloody. Oh so bloody. The bus. The blood painted on the windows. The eye.

There were no messages at Hotch's apartment besides Morgan's credentials and the bullet. No bloody letters or symbols painted on the walls.

Heterosexual couples.

"Are Haley and Jack in protective custody?" he asked, then realizing what a phenomenally stupid question that was. He wasn't sure who snorted derisively. Perhaps it was one those collective "group" ones. He wouldn't put it past the Kids.

"They've been moved to a safehouse in Fairfax along with Haley's sister," JJ said, with that patient tone he had heard so many times with the local police. "We have field agents assigned to Hotch's mother and his brother."

He glanced at the whiteboard that listed Foyet's profile. The man wanted to be famous.

Famous.

Had Hotch made some comment about how he would make sure that wouldn't happen? Triggering Foyet to focus on him? To make Hotch the star of his next perverted killing?

Jason circled back to the Reid's map, tuning out the discussion the other six were having. Boston. The Greater DC metro area. Another look over at the whiteboard. Morgan's distinct scrawl: _No recent unsolved murders match. NONE!!!_

None. Foyet was a ghost. Garcia had said as much, a freak skilled enough to operate off the grid. He wasn't going to be found unless he wanted to be found.

Which was complete and utter bullshit, in Jason's opinion. One of the few philosophies he did share with Rossi was the belief that an UnSub is still an UnSub. _The greatest weapon we have is a profile. What does it tell us?_

The insight was blinding, the thrill shooting down his spine and rousing in a way that it shouldn't have been. It was this that he missed, that feeling when his mind made a connection that someone else could rarely reasonably, logically could make.

"He's going back to Boston," Jason announced suddenly. "He's taking Hotch back to Boston." He glanced at the rest of the team, expecting to see the usual raised eyebrows and slightly gaping mouths they got whenever he had done that.

Instead, there were exchanged glances. Rossi's expression was that mix of masked embarrassment and pity, one he had used to use on aging cops who blurted out the obvious. His voice was still gruff, but had the undertone of sympathy as he stated, "Glad we're all in agreement. Wheels up in thirty."

///****///

It was almost like Jason had never left the BAU. JJ dealt the local LEOs. Garcia hunted down the smallest wisps of information via cyberspace. Prentiss and Morgan were out scouring potential locations for Foyet to hold Hotch captive (the term 'dump site' tacitly being ignored). Reid was in the field office's briefing room with a large mug of sugar-laden cop shop coffee doggedly working the map. Rossi played the role as conductor, keeping everyone up to date and directing new tasks once one trail had been exhausted.

Almost like Jason had never left. But he had. And this team, this incarnation, had an entirely different dynamic than before. He didn't fit in. He was there as a courtesy, perhaps. No. _The only reason you're here is because Spencer's playing the odds._

It wasn't because of some pettiness on Reid's part; that just didn't fit in with who Spencer Reid was.

 _The person you once knew as Spencer Reid,_ the little voice corrected. _And you know damn well the others won't forgive you until Spencer does._ Which given Reid's cool demeanor and clipped tones when addressing him meant it wouldn't be in the immediate future. Even if they got Hotch back, safe and sound.

Which they would, of course.

They would. They, as in: Reid, Morgan, Prentiss, JJ, Garcia and Rossi.

Jason was just along for the ride, just like Max Ryan had been for the Keystone Killer. But Ryan had retired with accolades and grace, turning to the lucrative book deals only after Rossi had hit the top ten with _Deviance_. Ryan hadn't run away. Ryan hadn't simply disappeared. And when Ryan had come back for that case, he certainly was a hell of lot more helpful that Jason was.

"Foyet's taken him to East Boston," Reid declared with a passionate certainty that Jason had never heard before. It left him momentarily stunned as Reid charged out of the room.

Rossi grabbed his phone, taking a few steps towards the door before glancing back at Jason. "What the hell are you waiting for?"

///****///

The Sig Sauer felt heavy on Jason's hip, as did the Kevlar vest on his chest. Morgan and Rossi had taken the lead. He wanted to be surprised that Reid was right on their heels; the Reid Jason had known had never been especially eager to charge into the fray. Then again, the Reid he had known never had been involved in a serious relationship.

Conventional wisdom dictated that there was no way in hell Reid should have been allowed to accompany Morgan and Rossi. Experience said that there was no way in hell Reid would have sat in the car and waited to hear if his hunch was right.

Experience also said that Reid was a magnet for trouble. Jason followed them, telling himself he was their backup, while Prentiss and JJ fanned out with the others on the scene.

Then…

They heard muffled sounds coming from the detached garage. The windows had been painted black, so they had to go in blind. Morgan, of course, kicked down the door and yelled, "FBI!"

Reid tore in after him followed by Rossi. It was Rossi who shouted, "Foyet! Put the gun down!"

There was a defiant howl followed by a single gunshot.

Jason didn't need to cross the threshold to know exactly who had fired the shot. It had been the closure Jason hadn't been able to achieve with Frank. Envy flared up as he entered the garage and took in the scene.

Rossi was comforting a woman covered in blood. A man was slumped in the corner to their left, part of his face bashed in. Morgan and Reid were cutting the bonds that held Hotch to a St. Andrews cross.

Oh God.

Foyet had made Hotch watch him torture two people, killing one of them.

Hotch was bloodied, shirtless with deep cuts and bruising across his torso and arms. It didn't stop him from slumping into Reid's arms, with a hoarse yet clear, "I knew you would figure it out", echoing from the rescue in Georgia that made Jason wonder just how long Hotch and Reid had been together. Aaron didn't let go of Reid as he was gently lowered to the ground.

Morgan shouting for the paramedics. JJ and Prentiss charging in, "Thank God" blurted as JJ yanked out her cell phone and made the call to Garcia.

George Foyet sprawled on the ground, blood oozing from the bullet hole in the center of his forehead courtesy of a scrawny kid who, at one time, had trouble passing his firearms qualification.

Jason slid his gun back into his holster and shuffled past the EMTs.

It wasn't his life any more.

It wasn't supposed to hurt this much.

///***///

The ivory envelope had a high cotton rag count, the type of paper usually reserved for formal announcements and invitations, not general correspondence. The handwritten script declared confidence, self-discipline, independence and self-reliance. Jason smoothed his thumb over the letters, the (unnecessary) confirmation that the author had used a fountain pen instead of ballpoint.

Old school. Respectful. Very Aaron Hotchner.

Jason carefully opened the envelope, pulling out the single sheet and knowing that the note would be to the point. Aaron rarely wasted words, something Jason had always appreciated. He scanned it briefly, ignoring the pleasantries that etiquette demanded because Aaron was raised to be a proper gentleman. He swallowed hard when he read: _If you want to talk, I'll be here to listen._

The same sentence from Aaron's letter almost three years ago.

The desperate part of Jason, the idiotic part of him, was crushed that there was no post-script about Reid or from Reid. There was no second letter from Reid tucked in with Aaron's thank-you note—God, the man had written a _thank you_ note!—offering absolutely or making amends or whatever.

 _I hope the next time we meet will be under less pressing circumstances._

It prompted Jason to snort, as his inner-Rossi voice chimed in with, _His invitation, not Spencer's._

He sighed as he walked over to his desk, pulling out the vellum and doing something he should have done three years ago.

 _Dear Aaron..._

///***/// Finis ///***///


End file.
